


Phoenix Fire

by Anjelle



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alternate Universe - Marine, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:25:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anjelle/pseuds/Anjelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captured by marines and waiting to be executed, Marco is surprised and confused to find himself drugged and fed a devil fruit he knows nothing about. He's even more confused when a brat barely out of his teens tries to help him. Just what the hell's going on?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Phoenix Fire

The world was tinted by the blues and purples of midnight darkness, enveloping everything in sight. His eyes scrolled across his cell, unable to fully pierce through the inky blackness beyond its bars from where he was chained against the wall. His only solace was in the sconces sparsely lining the hallway, the orange flicker of their flames reflecting off the stone walls. He watched them dance, meshing together in brilliant crimsons and golds, the light of the fire the only thing there to give him warmth, even if the heat never actually reached his skin. The cool chill of damp prison walls kissed his form, froze his bindings, the metal icy to the touch. He never allowed his mind to dwell, though, intently focused on the beautiful orange hue of the wall lamps, watching them dance. Perhaps it was his lightheadedness or the pain of being beaten again and again by the ones who put him in there, but something stopped his thoughts to admire the intricate flicker and wave of the light. In a haze of hunger and exhaustion he was determined never to turn away, deeming them his only comfort in a world of frigid cobblestone and steel.

He wondered when he would die.

They'd kept him down there so long his senses were distorted and dulled, muscles sore from inactivity and stomach protesting against the lack of food he'd been given. His pains grew so powerful, so strong that he was starting to look forward to his last meal, just so he could eat. The man was no fool; he knew he would be executed, made an example of.  _This is what happens to pirates,_  they would say.  _This is what evil looks like._  They would never tell the people that he was just a man, just like them, just trying to be free.

He scoffed.  _Goddamn marines._

When the soft patter of shoes against stone echoed down the hall and met his ears he finally pulled his eyes from the sconce to the furthest part of the prison he could see, though that didn't mean he was above sparing the glimmer of fire a second glance. Perhaps if he hadn't been there so long the walk of those steps to his cell bars would have seemed longer, but that was the most stimulation he'd had in days, as voices accompanied them. He couldn't make out the words but he'd have been damned if he didn't try.

The man was accompanied by two of the guards he'd seen on occasion, the smug, taunting expressions on their faces warrant enough for his stomach to twist into painful knots. He didn't want to know what they wanted with him. In any case, it was nothing good. A small part of him hoped it has to do with the old man, but he knew it for not; he wasn't being kept in a well-known prison like Impel Down and he doubted his capture made the headlines. They wouldn't want to alert the captain, after all.

The cell door opened with the hiss and scrape of metal against metal and the man, robed in a lab coat—he didn't like where this was headed—stepped inside. With furrowed brows he glared up at him, defiance in his eyes even as he remained complacently still, his limbs weak from his previous struggles. But he would go against them any way he could, even if it made not a single difference. He was a pirate. Pirates lived freely.

Even when caged.

The man knelt and before he could register what was going on he felt the stabbing pinch of a needle being shoved harshly into his bicep. The foreign liquid it injected flooded his bloodstream, leaving in its wake a warm, tingling sensation that swirled within him until nothing was left but numbness, his mind a fog of sleep and confusion.

The pirate managed a few colourful choice words before disorientation took over and left him all but brain-dead as his limp body was hauled over one of the guards' shoulders, the rattle of his chains clanking behind them. He wasn't coherent enough to remember the walk back down the hall, or much of anything before arriving in a large, open room and being left with the man in the lab coat. His eyes were heavy, out of focus, and he couldn't be bothered to pay attention to what the man was doing. He was starting to regain use of his limbs, but everything was so heavy that he managed to do no more than sit still as the marine fiddled about with this and that around the room before arriving in front of him with a strange…  _something._ When a piece was cut from its side and stabbed by a fork he assumed it food, and as the piece arrived in his mouth he readily chewed and swallowed it, not bothering to taste or even wonder just why he was being fed.

As the—fruit?—slid down his throat he felt something foreign stir in his gut. It  _burned_  like cinders charring his innards crisp and he coughed, gasped, searched for air as his mind went black.

The flicker of blue and yellow light twisting before his eyes was all he could see as he lashed out against his bindings and fled.

He couldn't even remember how he broke free.

* * *

When conscious thought returned to him, the pirate found himself nestled comfortably in some wooden structure—a barn or shed, perhaps. His body stirred, a noise of satisfaction rising up from his throat as he flexed his stiff and aching shoulders, craning his neck in much the same way. It took a moment for him to gather his thoughts well enough to remember where he'd been before, at the prison. Beyond the soft glow of the sconces and the arrival of a man, though, everything was lost to him. No, wait, he was fed… something. He couldn't recall what.

But that thought only succeeded in forcing his stomach to growl in complaint. He wasn't sure how he ended up there, but he wouldn't question it, either. Were he in peak physical health he would have immediately sought out his captain but, fatigued and hungry and confused as he was, he knew better.

He went to sit upright, push himself up with his forearms and—

...With his arms, and…

He didn't have arms.

This revelation was cut short by a sharp gasp from behind. He fought through the mess of broken wood he could only assume he'd created when he landed there—landed? Wait, that's right, he was flying, but how?—and turned around to see a boy standing there, face a mask of shock and disbelief as a hammer hung limply from his right hand.

Their gazes locked, neither looking away.

The pirate's eyes were quick to fall on the weapon—no, tool,  _tool_ —in the stranger's grasp and a bizarre, defensive feeling quickly overtook him. His body went tense and rigid and he looked between the boy's face and hand with clear anxiety. Why? Why was he… afraid of this kid?

The other seemed to notice, he, himself, wrought with nervousness as he bent low in slow, careful movements and placed the hammer on the ground at his feet. He wasn't eased by that until he found the tool kicked towards the wall, out of reach. But he still didn't relax. And he didn't know  _why_.

"Easy there," the stranger started, his voice slightly deeper than one would expect, "I'm not gonna hurt you; you don't gotta ruffle your feathers like that."

...What?

Grey eyes looked him over, half amused and half concerned. "Dunno much about birds, but I think being all puffy like that means you're upset." He looked past to the destruction left behind. " _Fuck_. I should be the one who's pissed."

A memory from the night before flashed through his mind, of blue and yellow flames bursting to life on his skin, the painful twist of his bones and muscles as they shifted and morphed into something else, and  _wings_ —

Devil fruit.

That thing, that fruit, it had to be…

_Shit._

In a sudden onset of panic he rose to his feet, practically tripping over himself as he tried to step forward, to move, to get away. Those  _pigs_ had him eat a devil fruit—a zoan.  _Why_ , though? Why give it to a criminal on death row? They were powerful, coveted and—

...And they would never give something so precious to an enemy.

_What did they feed me?_

His internal conflict was interrupted by the alarmed noises of the human—and he could say that, because in that form he clearly  _wasn't_  and he could figure out how to change back—who was raising his hands defensively in front of his face. The bird didn't know why, but he felt intimidated.

"Woah, shit, just calm down!" came the command as he flapped his wings unceremoniously, the spread of them threatening to knock the young man off his feet.

The pirate didn't know why but the rise of fear running through him caused him to hiss and lash out at the smaller form. He couldn't stand well and flapping his wings didn't seem to produce enough lift to get him off the ground so he resorted to snapping his beak when the younger approached. One would think a giant bird acting hostile as he was would scare anyone away, but it just seemed to agitate the boy.

"Oi!" he snarled, squaring his shoulders as he ignored the clacking of the bird's beak in warning and stomped nearer. "This is  _my_  goddamn property. If anyone should be getting nasty, it's me. Look what you did to the place!"

He actually looked around at the damage, for some reason. Beneath him lied a mess of splintered shelves he assumed were collateral in his less-that-eloquent arrival during the night.

"It's—" And the boy stopped, stilled. Everything went silent. The pirate was tense when he spotted the wordless forward shuffle of the other's feet but forced back his hostility. He was just a kid, barely out of his teens by the looks of it, with no weapons to speak of. He wasn't dangerous. What was there to be scared of? But when he was looking up at him from his spot resting in the rubble, staring into those pools of grey, so close he could count the freckles on his cheeks, he felt it stir once more. "...Oi. What happened?"

The bird squinted, following the human's eyes to his left wing, bleeding and quivering with a pain that never reached him during his adrenaline rush. As he came down from it, his emotions settling, he stretched the wing and hissed in pain, trying to better assess the damage.

"Shit. Looks pretty messed up."

By 'messed up' he assumed the young man was referring to what looked like a bullet hole in his… whatever it was. He didn't know much about birds himself. It was part of his wing, in any case, at it  _stung._ No wonder he couldn't fly.

He repressed the tremble in his limbs at the stranger crouched before him and reached out to touch his wing. "No wonder you were freaking out. Poor guy."

His eyes widened. Then that was…

_Instinct?_

"Or girl? I can never tell." Narrowing his eyes, he seemed to convey his thoughts well enough, as the boy offered a sheepish grin. "I'll go with 'guy'."

As the stranger looked over his wound he shifted, trying to settle into a more comfortable position since it seemed like that brat meant no harm. As he did so he heard a soft jingle, looking down to his feet—oh god, bird feet looked different—to see his steel bindings from before. The chains had been bent and it looked like they snapped, which was probably the reason he was free. There was a cuff on his right wing that he didn't notice before but he paid it no mind, his first priority getting that wound patched or, better yet, discovering how to shift back to his natural form. Zoans always made it look easy.

He tried not to dwell on the circumstances behind how he gained the ability, fearing he'd worry himself sick if he did.

The boy pulled back, offering a broad smile framed by soft, inky black locks of hair—the same black as the darkness of his cell. "I think I can patch that up for you. Wait here." He simply rolled his eyes as he watched the boy head for the door. Barely able to move as he was, where would he go?

Before leaving, the freckled one spun around sharply, as though he just remembered something. "I'm Ace, by the way," he stated. "Don't know why I'm introducing myself to a bird, but… Ah, fuck it. Wait here." And with the repeat of that command he was gone, leaving the pirate in mild amusement.

_Marco. Whitebeard pirate, first division._

He supposed introductions would have to be held off until he could speak again.

* * *

Marco huffed irately as the boy finished binding his wing. He'd dozed off while the younger was gone, probably a side-effect of whatever they drugged him with the night before, only to wake to one of the chains around his ankles being bolted down by a thick metal peg. After all that struggling he just managed to get himself out of one cage and into another. In a show of his displeasure he decided to nip at the boy as he finished his task, forcing him to reel back with a satisfying string of curses.

"I'm trying to help you, bastard!" he exclaimed, earning little more than a dull glare and a glace to the peg. "That? That's what's bothering you? If you try moving around too much you're gonna open the wound, dumbass. It's there to keep you from doing something stupid like before."

While it made sense to anyone who didn't know his situation—he  _did_ try to fly despite it earlier—he couldn't help the feeling of being trapped from looming over his thoughts. He hated it.

He didn't miss Ace's mutter of "I didn't think birds could comprehend shit like this," which caused him a hint of amusement, if nothing else.

Marco didn't bother to listen to the rest of the boy's ramblings, figuring that since Ace thought him no more than a dumb animal they weren't really meant for him. He nestled himself deep within a pile of pillows and blankets his 'host' showed up with earlier, shutting his eyes to prepare for more rest. His mind always fell back to thoughts of his father, of Oyaji. He just wanted to go home—to end the nightmare he lived through over the past however-long. But he didn't have the strength to fight his bindings, and he couldn't get far injured as he was… or in that form.

A banging met his ears and he snuck a peek at the boy. His shirt was discarded onto the dirt floor, leaving his back and biceps fully exposed as he lifted his arms above his head and drove a nail into the wall, the swinging of his hammer falling into a loud, rhythmic pattern. It looked like he was installing new shelves. Marco wouldn't apologise.

Blue eyes fell downward, staring at the plumage of his chest with narrowed eyes. He didn't think he'd ever get used to that form. His feathers were blue, matching the same flames he vaguely recalled from the midnight hours he spent in the prison. A darker hue shaded what he assumed was that form's transfer of his tattoo, the mark he proudly emblazoned on his chest as a symbol of loyalty to his captain. He wondered why the boy hadn't mentioned it.

...He was stuck like that, wasn't he? Even if he managed to change back, even if he found his way back to the Moby Dick, it wouldn't erase the fact that he ate that fruit. He wouldn't be able to just forget about it and move on.

_Shit._

Nerves shot, Marco found himself glaring at a crease in one of the blankets he was resting on. It somehow felt… wrong, and bothered him. That nagging feeling grew and grew until it overpowered his senses and he found himself reaching out to smooth it with his beak. When he pulled back to observe this change his scowl only grew and he found himself more unsatisfied than he started out, the area now too empty for him to be comfortable with. So he did the only thing he could do and reached in to readjust it, again and again until he found himself picking at the pillows as well, fussing over their placement around him like a compulsion.

A laugh, loud and full, chorused from his left. It had him freezing stiff, an embarrassed knot twisting in his stomach as he returned to his proper senses and looked up towards the sound. That grin of freckles was starting to become a familiar sight, though Ace's amusement at his behaviour was aggravating. It wasn't funny; it was worrisome. Marco didn't… didn't  _feel_  like himself anymore. And he  _hated_  it.

"Makin' yourself a nest there, birdie?" he asked as he approached, and Marco only realised then that he'd discarded the hammer at some point. "Guess that means you're getting comfortable. Or maybe you're just stressed."

Stress? Was that the cause?

The young man flopped down in front of him, not at all discouraged when he attempted to snub him by turning away. And with those deep, piercing grey irises glued to his form how could he keep from bringing him attention? He was still upset about being tied up like some wild animal, but he couldn't keep up the act. He was too tired.

"Miss home?" Ace asked, something solemn hidden within his tone. His eyes immediately found those freckled cheeks with mild surprised. The boy didn't look like he was really there, his gaze distant and thoughtful, and for a moment Marco wondered if he understood, if he could relate. But then a hand came to pat his elongated neck—which he swore he would  _never_  adjust to—and his nerves were once more on full alert. He didn't like being touched. "Don't worry; we'll get you patched up and out of here in no time." The bird wasn't so sure about that.

Marco clacked his beak in an attempt at protest, but the boy didn't seem to care, and even took the added attention to look him over in further detail.

"Just what are you?" he questioned in a hushed tone, eyes roving the markings on his body, the features of his rather strange yellow tail. "Never seen a bird this big before. Where'd you come from?"

The more he saw of the youth, the more Marco could confirm his suspicions: Ace was strange. It wasn't just because he was talking to what he assumed to be some dumb animal, either. He found a large, hostile bird in his shed and tried to  _befriend it_. He'd never wondered what it was doing there or showed any indication of shock when he noticed the bullet wound piercing his wing; he just helped. And the more the pirate saw, the more he couldn't keep distancing himself from the kid. He seemed… lonely.

A shiver ran down his spine. Fingers lightly trailed down his neck and he snapped, hissing as the hand was wrenched out of reach with a jolt and their eyes locked in a glare.  _Then again,_  he didn't much care for being treated like some domestic canary. If that boy kept trying to put him through the humiliation of being pet he was going to lose his hand.

"Would you  _quit that_?" the youth snapped in a growl, brows knitted in contempt. Apparently his 'nice guy' act was becoming strained. "I'm just trying to be friendly.  _Fuck_."

Marco scoffed.  _You tried to pet me, brat._

Seeing no remorse in the bird's gaze, Ace was to his feet and at the entrance in a heartbeat, turning back only to  _glower_  at his new foe. He looked insulted, which to the pirate was comical because, to the boy, he was just staring at a bird. "Asshole."

And with that, he was gone. And Marco still didn't know what to make of him.

* * *

It wasn't until the early morning that he was allowed the oh-so-wonderful company of the human. Ace had left in that childish way of his sometime around dusk and Marco had taken to sleeping most of the time he was gone, but there were so many hours in between their encounters that he found himself bored. His mind kept providing him with images of his last cell, of dancing flames that allowed the hours to float by as day and night meshed in the never-changing darkness of the prison walls.

He'd tried to entertain himself by taking a look at his lodgings. The shed was rather spacious, so it provided a fair amount of room, but the length of his chain only granted him access to half of it. That tiredness never left him, so he didn't have the strength to try to yank himself free. Leaving him with little choice, he stayed around his 'nest' and looked through the room lit only by moonlight, noticing an interesting peculiarity: everything was in threes. There were three of each tool on the wall racks, three broken and cracked bowls in a rope net hanging from a nail in the corner, and some sort of board leaning against a corner, divided into three, with writing he couldn't make out with such dim lighting. He had to wonder about that.

At the break of dawn Ace returned, a childish pout playing on his lips as he stopped just past the length of the bird's bindings, a basket hidden poorly behind his back. Marco would never admit the slight ease he felt to have company again—that being stuck there may have actually been better than his previous confinement. The way the younger shuffled his feet with nervousness was almost cute.  _Almost_ , but he hadn't forgotten the incident from the night before.

Ace breathed in deep, plopping cross-legged onto the ground as he pulled the basket between them, a wide assortment of fruits held within it. Marco started to remember his hunger. "Look," the boy began, grabbing one from the basket and holding it tauntingly in front him, "we got off on the wrong foot. Let's start over."

He narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

"I don't know what you eat, so hopefully there's something in here for you. If not, I have some fish in the house, a-and—" He stopped abruptly, shaking his head as though to change his train of thought. "I need you to cooperate, alright? Be good."

The tone he was using did little for Marco's mood, reminding him of a parent scolding a child, but he allowed it if only for the fact that, other than a bite of that devil fruit, he hadn't eaten in days. So when the boy gestured him closer he only hesitated for a moment before rising to his feet and hobbling over. The smile that Ace greeted him with contained so much excitement he almost felt intimidated, but nevertheless he took a seat across from him. The freckled brat was almost giddy at this slight bit of progress, as Marco had never approached him before.

_What are you planning, kid?_  Absently he noted that the boy was still missing a shirt and his muscles were on full display. Perhaps 'kid' was inaccurate—he was certainly built like an adult—but his childish mannerisms made the nickname stick.

When a freckled hand was reached out to him, he drew back with a snarl. But the damned brat had the audacity to wave the fruit in front of his face, and he almost caved. When he didn't, Ace huffed. "Swallow your pride and just listen, you stupid pigeon."

He cocked his brow.  _Pigeon?_

Marco made no attempt to allow his touch, though, and the human let out a frustrated growl before disappearing from the shed once more. He was almost sad to see him go; he enjoyed the company, if only because there was nothing in there for him to use to pass the time—not even the light of a far-off sconce. But then he returned less than ten minutes later and once more occupied the space in front of the bird.

He stared.

And  _stared_.

And Ace deflated. The fruit was placed on the floor in front of him, no attempted touch made. "Eat. You look kinda thin. I'm no expert on birds, but…"

The kid looked genuinely, wholeheartedly disappointed. Marco listened and ate what was offered, glancing up into those grey orbs every now and then. As he finished the first piece of his meal he stretched out his neck, brushing the plume atop his head against Ace's knuckles. He could have laughed when the boy jolted in surprise, but he figured the human deserved at least some form of thanks, and for some reason he was hellbent on petting him. Degrading as that thought was, he could at least offer him a touch—one the boy all too readily accepted as he carded his hand through blue and yellow feathers with a smile.

"You confuse me, bird." Marco snorted. He was one to talk. "But I like you. I think. You need a name, though."

_Marco_ , he wanted to say, but even then he couldn't seem to morph back. It was disheartening; he missed his hands. He missed communicating. This wordless interaction was starting to get to him.

"I'll call you Fluffy." And immediately a hiss and peck was there to greet him. Just like the day before he reeled back and glared. "Goddamn it, Fluffy! What the hell?! We were bonding, you fucking acid-peacock!"

His nicknames were starting to get more creative. And colourful. In more ways than one.

For a moment Marco thought he saw something flicker around the young man's clenched fist, but he was too distracted by the slew of curses thrown at him to be sure.

"I know," Ace started, something malicious in the way he glared, "I'll roast ya. You're huge; I'd have food for at least three days."

_That's cannibalism, yoi._  And for a normal person, something his size would last at least a week. Then again nothing about that guy really screamed 'average', from his muscles to his personality.

But despite his complaints, Ace didn't hesitate to hand him more food.

And he may have allowed the gentle caress of his neck, if only for a moment.

* * *

He'd been there for almost a week. After his first meal he realised he'd ingested too much too fast after not eating for so long and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the shed floor, Ace rubbing soothing circles along his back all-the-while. That probably scared the kid, as he'd showed up with smaller morsels and fed him more often, most likely attempting to avoid a repeat of that. Marco hadn't been bothered by it much—just made a mental note to be careful in the future. He also noticed the boy sitting with him more, instead of leaving him alone half a day like that first night. He wondered why.

When day three rolled around he was sure Ace was up to something. Marco still remained fickle over touch and whenever he snapped or hissed Ace would get up and leave without a word. The loneliness was crushing—even after so long in prison he was still used to the loud, boisterous excitement of the Moby Dick—and he made a conscious attempt not to push the human away to such an extent. His company wasn't bad, after all, and the only thing that really irked him was being treated like some sort of pet.

But then he realised it: Ace was trying to  _train him._

_Cocky brat._

Ace wasn't too happy to see that he made little progress after his rather determined attempts, but if Marco were honest he was starting to wear down. Every time the boy left him alone like that his chest clenched and this strange, foreign urge to apologise took over. He never did, of course, but he wasn't much enjoying being left in isolation. He'd be there for a while if Ace didn't intend to let him go until his wing was healed, if he let him go at all—his stomach turned at the thought—so he supposed he could humour him, if only a little.

The pirate waited for Ace's appearance on the sixth day, but worried when no one came. Ordinarily he'd receive a visit first thing in the morning, presumably soon after the boy woke and before he went to work doing… whatever it was he did. He'd look through the doorway and watch as Ace carried things across his property—once he found a  _tiger_  carcass trailing behind the kid and had to wonder just what island they were on—and would take occasional breaks before leaving at night. He'd be gone for hours, Marco didn't know where to, before returning with dinner. He never saw him that morning, his growling stomach a testament to that.

Over the week he'd come to accept the instincts that came with his devil fruit, though he tried to keep the human from seeing. He didn't want to risk finally figuring out how to transform back only to have embarrassing acts being brought up by someone half his age. Nervous anxiety took him over and he found himself preening his feathers as though to cope with the stress.

It wasn't until the late in the evening that Ace finally showed. He could hear the steady, weighted gait of the young man as steps clacked against the ground, the sound rising as he drew near. Marco cocked his head up from where he rested amidst his nest, perfected so that every crease and fold was to his liking, and he watched a tall shadow cast across the ground. It grew larger until he found Ace standing in the doorway, basket in one hand and bucket in the other.

But he was different.

The muscled chest he was so used to seeing was mostly hidden behind an open white shirt, a blue neckerchief tied around his bicep, soaked in red. From between the two ends of the top he could see bandages that he knew to be absent before. He recognised the uniform for what it was by the navy of his pants and the word emblazoned on his cap:  _MARINE._

His eyes widened. That whole time…

Ace smiled through the cringe of pain ever-present on his face, taking a few slow, forced steps forward, and Marco had to force himself not to move away. That wasn't the time to panic, and he certainly wasn't going to be difficult when the kid was bleeding out. He was a marine. He was a marine  _but he didn't know._ And so long as he didn't know, he wasn't a threat. But that didn't stop the tense of his muscles as the officer stopped in front of him.

Grey eyes settled on him, the hardness from before melting away as he poured water from the bucket into the bowl laid out for the bird. A shivering breath passed his lips. "You scared, Fluffy?" Marco swallowed. "Don't worry; it's mostly mine."

He turned to the splatter of blood on the front of the shirt.  _That doesn't make it okay, yoi._

The food soon joined the water and Marco stared hard at his reflection, at the the dark rings around his eyes and so very different face. In all that pain, he still brought him his meal. He closed his eyes when he felt a pressure against his side, remaining quiet as short, haggard breaths filled the silence.

"I messed up today," Ace whispered as his mouth stretched into a jaded, rueful smirk. "He was there. He was  _fucking there._ "

A hand fisted his feathers and he craned his neck around to stare at a curtain of ebony strands.

"After all this time he shows up with the goddamn  _Revolutionary Army, leading_  the attack." Marco didn't fail to notice the quiver of his shoulders. "The  _look_ —" He bit back a sob. "The look he had, w-when he saw me…"

Discomfort settled in his chest and he moved to quell the boy, nudging his arm with the plumage of his head. It brushed lightly across his skin, in what he  _hoped_  was a comforting gesture. In an instant the boy doubled over, burying his head in a sea of feathers as he wrapped his arms tightly around the bird's neck at practically choking levels. Marco stiffened but allowed it. Whatever he saw during their hours apart was enough to turn that cocky brat into a trembling mess. In soothing motions he ran his beak through the boy's messy, black hair, hoping it was enough to replace the pat on the head he would've liked to give him.

"I didn't… When I signed up, I  _never_ —" Again he cut himself off, and again he shifted his thoughts. "I-I didn't want to be like  _him._  I didn't want to live in his shadow. B-but  _this_ —"

Fingers absently caressed him, pet him, as though it would calm Ace down.

"...I'm s-so  _happy_ , Fluffy," he stated in a broken, wet laugh. "H-he's okay. My brother, he's…"

That grip tightened and Marco waited, never ate until the boy's breaths evened and shallowed.

Sometimes it was easy to forget that the enemy was human, too.

* * *

The morning found Marco instinctively grooming the one still nestled in his side, sound asleep. Looking so peaceful as he rested, one wouldn't expect him to be a man who fought pirates. Marco could never picture that face in battle. But the previous night told him differently.

Glancing absently around the shed, his eyes caught on the glimmer of light reflected off of the peg at the end of his chain. It had been  _pulled up._  Immediately he thought maybe something knocked it out of the hole Ace made but he knew better; he'd made various attempts that first night. Unless…

Turning back to the marine he narrowed his eyes, taking the shell of his ear between the halves of his beak and giving it a quick yank. A yelp rose out from the other's throat and he jumped up and  _glowered_  at his attacker. "FLUFFY, YOU TRAITOR! What the  _hell_?!"

He ignored that damnable nickname to cock his head towards the peg. Ace didn't seem to get it.

"Bad Fluffy.  _BAD._  Fuck, am I bleeding? I _better_ not be bleeding. Fucking blue turkey."

A tug to his uniform shirt—and a satisfying rip to go with it—and the marine finally saw what he was gesturing at. For a while he just stared at it blankly, blinking dumbly like he didn't know what he was looking at, until finally it clicked.

"Oh, right!" he noised, digging into a pouch at his side to reveal a rather bizarrely-shaped screwdriver—the tip Marco recognised as exclusively made by the marines, so any convicts couldn't easily take their things apart, particularly shackles. Ace just grinned at him. "Now that I got this, I can get those off of ya."

Ace had removed the peg. But it was still in place when he'd fallen asleep, so during the night…

"Just…" He refocused on the freckled youth. "When I take those off… stay? You're still hurt, so…"

As the marine's words dropped into incoherent murmurs, Marco stared on with sympathy.  _You're lonely._

The weighted steel dropped off with a clank and he felt a million times lighter, inwardly grinning now that he'd regained his greatest weapon, and gave his legs an experimental flex. He could tell just from one quick movement that they retained their power, and he couldn't be happier.

When Ace saw that he flinched, shutting his eyes and fixing himself to that spot on the floor. Marco managed to pull himself away from testing his new maneuverability long enough to tilt his head at the sight. When the kid didn't move he lightly pecked him on the head, earning a short grunt as grey orbs stared up at him.

Those eyes widened. "You're… not leaving?"

_Weren't you the one who asked me to stay, brat?_  He didn't know the first thing about how to find the old man, anyway; his eternal pose to the island he was supposed to meet his division at was taken during his imprisonment, as well as Oyaji's vivre card. Until he procured a log pose and a ship or healed well enough to fly, there wasn't much he could do.

And some part of him might have pitied the boy.

Confusion morphed into an impossibly-wide grin and he found the marine hanging from his neck, ignoring the injury on his bicep to squeeze the bird tightly. "You do care, Fluffy!"

He hissed. If he called him that  _one more time_ —

Ace laughed. "Alright, alright! Marco, then."

His blood froze in his veins. Everything stilled.  _What did he just call me?_

Without missing a beat Ace rose, meeting the bird at eye level, smug smirk on his face with a clear message:  _I know._  But he never said it, taking to run a hand down the plume of feathers on his neck. "Wait here—I'll get breakfast." He spun around in a flurry of white and blue but stopped just before crossing the shed's threshold to grin back at him. "Glad to see you're tame," he teased.

And with that he was gone, not even giving him a vague explanation.

_He escaped._

Somehow the comment didn't bother him, the petting didn't irk him, and he was left content, sitting there amidst his nest.

Because Ace knew. And he didn't care.

* * *

The marine didn't seem to like being followed.

Apparently Ace had the night off—to recover from his injuries, Marco guessed—as when dusk arrived he hadn't disappeared. He'd spent a great deal of time in the shed with the bird, rambling on about this and that but never broaching the topic of Marco's identity. He supposed, being a marine, it wasn't a far stretch for him to have been told about the incident that happened a week before; the first mate of the strongest man in the world had eaten a devil fruit and escaped, after all. But for the life of him, he couldn't figure Ace out. If he'd know all that time, why did he help—treat his wounds, keep him hidden away safely in that run-down shed?

Why did he talk to him? Why was he the one Ace sought comfort from during the dark hours of the night?

Didn't he have anyone else?

Ace was about to turn in for the night, leaving for his house, when he noticed the bird following two feet behind. At first he didn't bring attention to it, though Marco noticed his unease, but when he was stalked all the way to his front doorstep he finally spun around to fully face the blue form and make his nervousness known.

They stared, eyes locked firmly on the other until Ace turned away.

"What do you think you're doing, Fl—Marco?" the boy questioned, gaze to the ground and face slightly coloured red. "Your nest is back there." He gestured to the shed.

_I'm not staying out here if I don't have to, yoi._  And if the youth was lonely, shouldn't he have welcomed the company?

"Go," he commanded with a flick of his wrist, "shoo."

When Marco made it clear that he wasn't going anywhere but in that house, feet planted firmly in place, Ace conceded. In a reluctant show of compliance, he opened the door and stepped aside, granting the bird entrance with a sigh.

As Ace scurried about, mumbling something-or-other about a 'stupid, self-entitled peacock', the pirate took the chance to look around. There wasn't much in the way of furniture aside from a few tables and chairs, but there was certainly clutter. It wasn't dirty per se, just messy. There were books in one corner of the living room piled high and covered in a thick film of dust, as though they hadn't been moved in years. He had boxes scattered about the floor, a mess of papers on the tables and an assortment of items along the walls. It certainly looked… lived in.

His attention was brought back to the marine when he heard the opening of a fridge door followed by the tink of glass against glass. He'd retrieved a pint of ale. Marco wouldn't have batted an eye, were it not for the pain medications he just  _knew_ the kid had to be on with wounds like those. His whole torso was shaded a  _lovely_  variety of purples, blues and greens. To voice his concerns he let out a protesting squawk.

Ace cocked an eyebrow, looking between the bird and the bottle. "What?" He shook the bottle and the liquid swished about inside. "This?"

Marco narrowed his eyes, conveying his thoughts as best he could.

"Sorry, bud, but I don't think birds should be drinking this stuff."

He narrowly resisted the urge to slam his foot into the kid's face.

The pirate seated himself in a corner of the kitchen once the brunet took his place at the island in the centre of the room. They watched each other in silence as the bottle was uncorked and it wasn't hard to see that Ace was nervous with him there. He thought the reason would go unsaid but, lo and behold, one sip into his drink the naval officer opened his mouth.

"Say, Marco," he started, turning the bottle in his hand and watching it gleam, "can I trust you not to turn on me when I'm inebriated?"

He was almost insulted by the insinuation; the commander had too much pride to attack an intoxicated man unprovoked, enemy or not. Ace presumably understood the vague conveyal of his expression, raising placating hands.

"I don't really… know much about pirate codes of honour, or anything like that—no time to ask when they're tryin' to kill me," he explained, gripping the neck of the bottle once more. His eyes flitted over the bird in brief glances but never settled, instead returning to bore holes into the countertop. "You understand me, right?"

That was an odd question, one that held their gazes for a stretching few moments, and he had to nod. He didn't miss the way the boy's shoulders loosened or the faint hint of a relieved smile that graced his features.

And so Ace downed a large mouthful of ale.

"Good. That's… That's really good."

Marco didn't really understand, but as he watched the boy damage his body further with alcohol he decided he didn't care. Instead he waited, sat there for hours until the boy was half falling asleep, drunk, until he decided he'd had enough and headed over, tugging the corner of his shirt with his beak.

_Come on, now. That's enough, yoi._

Ace groaned in protest, dropping his head onto the counter with a loud  _thud._  "Dun' wanna," he slurred, gripping the edge of his makeshift bed. Marco huffed when he saw that Ace was a difficult drunk, half-tempted to kick the stool out from under him. It certainly would've been satisfying. "'M fine, birdy, jus' a little sleepy."

_'Fine' isn't how I would put it, yoi,_ especially with the way he was falling all over the place, barely able to keep his balance when seated.

The marine lifted his head, unfocused eyes scrolling over a frame in front of him. Marco hadn't noticed it before and curiously gave it a glance. There were three boys. One he knew had to be Ace, as the familiar stare of grey eyes was unmistakable. He had a few less freckles on his face back then, his eyes catching on the ones dotting his cheeks and drawing attention to his boyish grin—a look the pirate knew he retained even all those years later. Beside him was a blond, cuts and bruises decorating his face like battle scars. Both swelled with pride, arms hooked around a small, younger child in between them. Blood leaked from a forehead wound but the child went undisturbed by that, a smile larger than the sun dead centre in the photo, gesturing to what he could vaguely make out as the coat of a tiger cut off by the edge of the picture.

He looked back up, seeing a softness in Ace's features that he knew well, meshed with a pained, broken expression that he knew wasn't a result of his injury.

"My brothers," he murmured, "Sabo and Luffy. A revolutionary and a goddamn  _pirate_."

He narrowed his eyes. So the one he was talking about in the late hours of dusk, the one he cried over, who upset him so much that he sought comfort from his enemy, was…

Marco's heart clenched.

The commander left his thoughts when he noticed the freckled brat tipping over. In panicked motions he placed himself to break the boy's fall, catching him on his back with a painful  _thud_. Ace groaned, so he was sure he wasn't hurt from the fall, but when he moved to wrap his arms around the avian's neck instead of getting up he thought it a good opportunity to get the human into bed and away from any more alcohol—because he certainly didn't need it.

Fortunately his legs were more than strong enough to carry the both of them.

"Givin' me a ride, Fluffy?" he questioned in a slur. Marco simply rolled his eyes and started towards the bedroom. He wasn't about to snap at a drunk kid for giving him a stupid nickname. That room was a little more orderly, surprisingly enough, and a lot more empty. He had to hop onto the fair-sized bed himself to drop the boy onto it, allowing him to roll onto the mattress as blue eyes flitted about the room, studying each of the four walls reflecting the burning light of the wall lamps. He noticed Ace had a lot of those around—sconces—but no lanterns. "No, ish Marco, right? Marco… something. C'mmander Marco. Pirate guy."

He gave the boy his attention, a pique of amusement on his face as those distant grey orbs looked up at him.

"Ya don' look like a Marco. You're fluffy. S'ppose you're not always, though." During a moment of silence he found a hand absently playing with the rings of his tail, smoothing the feathers over with the pad of his thumb. "Kinda forget wh't ya look like." The other hand reached up to caress his beak, and he allowed the action, if only because he wasn't sure how to react. "Blond, right? 'N pale. Blue eyes…"

Marco allowed his lids to fully slip shut, taking in the feeling of nails brushing along his face, then down his neck before falling back to the mattress.

"I wanna see it again. Can I?"

_I don't know how,_  he admitted, but then Ace started digging around in the pocket of his shorts, brows knitted in focus as he trained all of his attention on the searching hand. Marco just tilted his head, cocking it to the side as he watched. And then the hand was brought to his vision, and in it a  _key_.

His eyes widened and he swallowed.

Ace was smiling that stupid, sloppy, drunken smile of his, clenching the key tightly in his grasp. "Was kinda scared 'ta show ya. Thought you might…" Marco looked to his wing, finally remembering the cuff on it, and his body went tense.  _Seastone?_ "But… you wouldn't, right, Marco-bird?"

The marine was so drunk he probably didn't fully realise what he was doing, but he didn't move to bring attention to that as the key was lifted to the cuff, shoved into a lock Marco had never noticed before. The stone fell to the bed, releasing a painful pinch he didn't feel until then, and he felt a warm rush surge through him, bright blues and yellows catching on his skin as fire rippled around him. The stinging of his injured wing vanished with the heatless burn of the flames and he stared in shock at Ace who simply watched with mild interest as the bird was fully engulfed.

For a few long, stretching moments all he remembered was light. But as the inferno faded and he regained his sight he felt different—stronger, taller,  _human._

And Ace was grinning at him. "You understand me still, Marco-bird?"

He looked so tired, so drunk, so out of it, but the pirate couldn't bring himself to worry about that as he lifted his arms— _he had arms!_ —to his face, watching them quiver as his body trembled with adrenaline. "I…" That was  _his_ voice— _his_ words.  _I'm me…_

"...Fluffy?"

The blond's gaze snapped up, eyes wide, and he remembered the question he was asked. But this time he didn't have to nod. This time he didn't have to stay silent. "I… understand, yoi."

That grin stretched and a hand reached up yet again, carding through his mess of dirtied hair. "Good Fluffy." Long strokes followed that initial brush, and it took him a while to register that it was different than it was in his other form. But he didn't care and his focus was on looking down at his body, at the tattered rags that barely concealed his skin. It felt  _so good_ to be sitting there, human, feeling more like himself than he had all week, that he found the corners of his mouth twitch up—and _he could smile again._

He almost missed the use of that stupid nickname— _almost_. But he couldn't bring himself to care.

"Not gonna attack me, are ya?" Ace questioned in an uneven rise-and-fall that almost assured he was falling asleep.

Marco hovered over him, narrowing his eyes with a shake of his head. "I won't."

The boy was practically elated when he heard that answer and didn't hesitate to lock his arms around the blond's neck and drag him down to the mattress in an instant so that they were lying beside one another, the elder's jaw going slack. But he didn't mention it, that happy look on the other's face causing any protests to fall out of mind.

He swallowed. "Sleep, yoi."

Ace still hadn't let him go but compliantly shut his eyes, affectionately pulling the bird—the  _human_ —closer. And as everything went silent, only dim fire lighting the area around them, he allowed his own lids to close as well.

"...Thanks, brat."

* * *

Marco was the first to wake. He found himself watching his bedmate rest, going over the night's events again and again in his mind. For a while he didn't care to wonder about how his injury healed or how long Ace had that key with him, didn't question the fiery blaze he could still feel raging beneath his skin, the invigorating feel of it as it coursed throughout his body. The pirate was content with just brushing loose strands from that freckled face, running his fingertips along the smooth skin of his cheek.

He sighed.  _What am I doing?_

Standing was an interesting experience; he almost overbalanced. It was only seconds before he righted himself and a rush of nostalgia had him walking with ease. It was still early and he doubted Ace would wake soon with how tired he was the night before, so he went about making himself at home—bathed, got dressed (in clothes he'd stolen from the marine's closet, of course) and made a simple breakfast out of what he could find in the kitchen.

It was right around his second cup of coffee—which he relished, as he hadn't gotten a taste of it since before he'd been imprisoned—and the end of his read-through of yesterday's paper that he heard a string of curses echo from beyond the bedroom door. He barely glanced up when the brunet exited into the living room while babying his most-likely pounding head, a change of clothes in his other hand.

Ace looked at him, froze, and dropped his clean outfit onto the floor.

Marco took another sip. "You're awake," he greeted without looking up, flipping the page. Towards the back was an article about the 'dangerous prison escapee' still being at large with a recap of what was a clearly embellished story. He didn't remember 'deceiving the prison guard to escape unnoticed'; he barely remembered getting out of there at all.

The marine gawked with his jaw slack, gaping like a fish as his eyes searched Marco's right arm. "Y-you're…"

He looked up and saw Ace flinch under his gaze. When he said he was worried Marco would attack him, he wasn't messing around. There was honest  _fear_  in his eyes. "Fluffy, yoi."

Immediately the boy's face reddened and his eyes dropped to the floor. "...Marco." Well, at least he'd taken to his real name. "How did you…?"

The pirate took that chance to dangle the key in front of him, hoping to jog his memory. He wasn't surprised he forgot, with how much he drank the night before.

" _I_  let you go?" The blond simply hummed in affirmation as he finished the article and scoffed.

When the boy was still standing there, unsure of what to do, Marco gestured him over to the island where a second, untouched plate of food was placed, to which he reluctantly complied and took the seat beside him. At first Ace didn't touch his food, which the zoan knew odd, as he'd seen his appetite in action more than once during the week. Perhaps it was awkward, seeing him like that. Even if he'd known his identity the whole time, he'd essentially spent the week with a bird, not a pirate. And as he watched the younger fidget in place he was led to sigh and give him his full attention. "What, yoi?"

And for the first time all morning, Ace looked him dead in the eyes. "...It's really you, right?"

The blond blinked. "Yeah, it's—"

His eyes enlarged when he found a mess of fingers tangling themselves within his hair, a feeling reminiscent to being pet in his other form. And as he watched a wondrous smile blossom on the kid's face, he was the one confused.

"Soft," Ace stated with a grin, "I like it."

Marco rolled his eyes and went back to his coffee. "Brat."

"Your arm!" the marine suddenly exclaimed, jolting Marco to attention as he rolled up his sleeve and stared intently at the unmarred skin he found there. "...It healed?"

"Know anything about that, yoi?" Grey eyes found him with surprise and he looked the boy up and down, shaking his head. The marines recruited younger and younger every time he saw them. "You're one of them, aren't you?"

The way Ace avoided looking at him and rubbed the back of his neck was odd, almost like he was ashamed. "...Vegapunk stayed on this island," he explained with blatant reluctance. "Did some research on devil fruits but left before finishing… whatever he was doing. Some guys found his shit and wanted to test it all out. Found a man-made devil fruit."

So that's what they fed him.

"He was trying to make a new type, or something. But in his notes he said it was risky. Wasn't sure of the side effects—thought it might mess with the user's mental capabilities."

Marco pressed his chin against his folded hands, staring absently ahead. It was starting to make sense.

_"I didn't think birds could comprehend shit like this."_

_"You understand me, right?"_

"So they got a criminal on death row," the pirate continued with furrowed brows. He was going to die anyway, so why not see how that fruit affected him? If it worked they could try to recreate it and, if not, the victim would die anyway. It wouldn't matter. He scoffed at the thought.  _Fucking marines._

A slight pressure to his side had him relinquishing those malicious thoughts, turning to look down at the head of messy dark hair against his shoulder. "Not scared?" he questioned, a slight smile playing on his lips. "I'm a pirate, yoi."

"You were a pirate before, too," Ace pointed, "just poofier."

A low, raspy chuckle escaped his lips and he did what he couldn't before, reaching up to tousle the younger man's hair. He pretended not to notice the rosy flush of those freckled cheeks. "And yet you helped me, yoi. Why was that?"

Ace was avoiding his gaze even more now, which was amusing in its own right since he was usually so up-front. He almost thought he wouldn't get an answer.

"I'm a marine, but that doesn't mean I agree with everything they do," he stated in a low, steady voice. "You looked so scared, and confused, and I…"

Marco found himself leaning into the touch. He liked that boy.

"...How could I not?"

* * *

Ace spun and Marco smirked, arms folded over his chest as he looked over the double-breasted uniform the boy sported, of beige and red, sharing an uncanny similarity to what he'd seen of the Impel Down uniform—not that he'd ever been, as he wasn't stupid enough to get himself caught more than once. It looked a lot sharper, more refined than the regular blue and white getup the marine usually wore, and the blond secretly admitted that he might have liked the way it fit him.

"Well?" Ace prompted, pulling his burgundy glove further up his arm. "Am I ready?"

"Almost," he replied, pushing off the wall to grab the uniform hat that had been discarded on the bed during the boy's rather amusing struggle to put on the various layers that made up the prison garb. He seemed to not be much of a fan of stiff clothes—or pants. Marco plopped the hat down on Ace's head, adjusting it slightly, smiling when the boy looked up at him.

He leaned in close, brushing his lips tauntingly against the other's before pulling away. An unsatisfied whine left the marine's throat, causing him to chuckle. But neither mentioned it.

"Be careful, yoi."

"I will."

"Don't get caught."

"I  _won't._ "

"And—"

" _Hush_ , Fluffy. I'll be fine." His worries were quelled when a chaste kiss arrived in his cheek and he deflated, dropping the issue as he followed the boy out of the bedroom and to the front door. He still couldn't believe Ace was willing to go to such an extent for him; they'd known each other no more that two and a half weeks. By then, though, he'd confirmed that the kid was alone. And that knowledge weighed him down like an anchor. But he ignored those thoughts and gave the officer a warm, soft look when he gave him a mock salute. "See ya,  _Commander._ "

He snorted. "Get going, brat."

The door slammed shut and he was alone.

Marco had been close to leaving that day when the cuff was removed. He was reluctant, seeing the state the boy was left in when Sabo—he'd straightened out which brother was which over the past week and a half—showed up, but knew that Oyaji was probably ready to tear apart the seas to look for him. The old man was protective of his family, of his crew.

That was before he found out that Ace sometimes worked in the prison.

It was funny how an enemy was the one to formulate the plan. Ace had access to all of the things that were confiscated from the convicts who'd been arrested, so long as he worked there that particular day. Walking around looking for a new log pose and ship would have been difficult—though he supposed he could fly if the latter proved to be too hard to find—since the marines were still scouring the island for him. Then Ace told him that he could get his personal effects back, provided he waited until the boy was next called in as a replacement guard. He readily complied. The first division members would have moved on by then, but with Oyaji's vivre card he could find the Moby Dick. He could go home.

...And maybe he could take Ace with him.

* * *

A day alone only made Ace's return sweeter, grinning with the blond's belonging hidden away in his breast pocket. He took that young, grinning face between his hands, smoothing the skin with the pad of his thumb and looking deep into his eyes. He was about to welcome him back when the younger spoke first.

"Stay 'til morning?"

And how could he deny him that small favour when he looked so sad, so scared? "I'll stay, yoi."

He'd ask later in the night.

After dinner they found themselves lying in bed. Since that first night Ace never said anything about him filling the spot next to his, and it developed into sort of a routine. In the mornings he often found a pair of arms wrapped around his torso, held close to the body of the other. Apparently he wasn't the only one who enjoyed it.

The room was dark. Ace was going around lighting the sconces. It was the first time the pirate bore witness to it, eyes lighting with interest as he watched the boy remove his glove, hand immediately sparking with warmth. His eyes widened as he watched a mesh of red and yellow flames dance about his flesh, transferring to the sconce and spreading the light to leave the room with a soft orange glow. The fire was mesmerising and for a second he forgot where he was, taken back to a cold, damp cell with only the light of the flames to keep him company.

He didn't know Ace was a logia user, but he'd never asked, either.

Eventually he pulled his eyes away, smoothing the bed sheets with his hand—a habit he faintly recognised from when they first met. So he was nervous, was he? He hadn't even realised.

The marine never allowed him to dwell on that thought, slipping onto his lap without a hint of hesitation, that freckled grin ever-present on his face as their noses lightly brushed from the short distance. "Say, Marco," he started with arms wrapping around the pirate's neck, pressing them flush against one another, "what's it like, being a pirate?"

His eyebrows raised in surprise as he thought about it, never expecting that to be what he was asked. Before he answered, though, he had to wonder, "Why, yoi?"

And Ace pulled away. And he immediately regretted it.

The brunet pushed off his lap and flopped down on the mattress to stare up at the white ceiling, now a flickering array of orange and yellow hues. Grey eyes flitted briefly over to the wanted posted above the headboard, of Luffy's first bounty, before returning to watch the dancing light. "I'm wondering… why he chose it."

Marco leaned back, head thumping against the wall as he thought back to the crew, to his brothers and sisters. How long had it been since he last saw them? How long was he trapped in that god-awful cell, waiting for his execution date? Were they worried? "There's nothing like it," he declared with a smile as he looked out at the room, a hand on his knee. "There are no rules, no boundaries. We're free. And Oyaji, he treats us like a family, yoi—like sons."

Ace's head cocked to the side, gawking at him like he was crazy. "Sons? You're a bunch 'a pirates."

And Marco had to laugh, because he wasn't wrong. When the boy turned onto his side to face the pirate with confusion he allowed a hand to ruffle the dark strands of his hair, relishing in the heat that resonated from him like a furnace. "We're outcasts, yoi—what the world threw away. None of us have anywhere to go back to, but we have each other. The old man gave us a home."

The young man licked his lips, absently clutching to the fabric of the other's pants. "So you call him 'father'."

"And he calls us 'sons'."

Ace's head burrowed into the pillows, hiding his face from view. "I wonder… if Lu's crew is like that. Sounds nice."

His heart raced. "Come with me, yoi." The words slipped out before he had a chance to stop them. He felt how the body next to his tensed but he wasn't just about to back down, so he pressed on. "You don't belong here. You're not like them."

"No."

"But Ace—" Marco had to stop himself when he turned to see knuckles clenched so tightly to his pant-leg they flared white.

"I'm a marine," the boy stated low, quiet, barely above a whisper. "That's what I decided, and that's what I'll remain. I'm not gonna defect for a goddamn criminal." And yet there was no venom to his words, no hatred, no spite. He just sounded… sad.

"You helped me," he pointed.

"I helped you because I like you. That's it." But how could he have liked him if, when they met, he couldn't even speak?

"A normal marine would've turned me in."

For a while both were silent. He could tell from the tension in the younger's shoulders that he had something to say but never pressed, half-lidded eyes drawing to a close as he felt tiredness take over. But before he had a chance to slip off he heard a small voice.

"...You thanked me—when I lit the sconces."

A distant memory made its way to the forefront of his mind, of a single set of footsteps walking down the prison hall, fire following in its wake, giving him something to look at through the pale darkness of cobblestone walls.  _That was you?_  Flashes followed—b;urred, scattered. He recalled that same, beautiful grey emerging from beyond the blue and yellow fires his body produced, helping him, guiding him, urging his drug-induced mind to  _escape._

His jaw went slack. "..You got me out of there."

"You looked so scared…"

Still dazed, he didn't resist when the boy pulled him down to lie beside him, didn't react when he saw that familiar face hover above him, illuminated by that nostalgic orange fire.

"I didn't expect you to crash-land in my shed." Their lips met briefly, gently, before the marine's full weight came to rest on his chest, and he hugged him close. "I can't be a pirate. I won't be like my father. I won't be his shadow."

The blond managed to recollect himself, squeezing him tight. "I'll miss you."

"Me, too," came a hushed whisper. "...Hey, Marco?"

"Hm?"

"I miss Fluffy."

And he didn't have to say any more, the pirate's eyes shutting as he released the fire threatening to burst from his skin, feeling the twist and contort of his bones and muscles as a familiar, nostalgic feeling took over. It didn't take long for Ace to rest against the plumage of his side, using him like a pillow as he ran a hand along his neck in long, affectionate strokes, snuggling deeper into the plume and letting out a satisfied hum.

"You're soft."

_As you've said._

Ace smiled as he drifted off. "If something happened to me, would you do what I did?"

He narrowed his eyes, nestling closer to the boy.

"Tell me in the morning, 'kay? G'night, Fluffy."

_Goodnight, Ace._

_And thank you._

* * *

Marco stared down at the peaceful, resting face of his short-time companion, bending in low to kiss his cheek, careful not to disturb his sleep. He'd already retrieved the vivre card from the pocket of the prison uniform discarded on the floor, but he didn't really want to say goodbye. Maybe it was selfish, maybe it was wrong, but he didn't want it to end. He wouldn't wake him.

Before leaving he hovered over the younger, pressing his lips close to his ear.

"If you need me, I'll be there. I promise."

He turned to leave, heading towards the door.

"I love you, Ace."

And he never looked back.

 


End file.
